


Memory game

by RoughTweedAction (Donya)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mycroft Feels, Post-The Final Problem, Recovered Memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-24
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2018-09-26 12:03:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9895673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Donya/pseuds/RoughTweedAction
Summary: Sherlock recollects more details from his earliest years and it's just as dark as the loss of childhood friend.





	1. Chapter 1

When Sherlock recovered childhood memories, he expected them to be a mixture of carefree joy and utter terror. He remembered games and rhymes, running around and screeching in delight, and crying inconsolably. Amongst those frozen moments of the life he had lost was a puzzle. An image, the darkened room, moonlight illuminating a pair of pyjamas thrown on the floor. Whenever he was free, he would analyse it, wondering why it bothered him so much.

The longer he thought about it, the more details he noticed. The nightwear seemed new, the pattern was surprising- stars and planets and comets. The child must have been lying in bed naked, despite the cold. Sherlock could feel it, the shivering of his much younger body under the thick duvet. Finally, there was a whisper, simple, soothing words that sounded ominous to him now and large hands reaching out to him.

It could have been a scene from a film, a fragment of a book, or a misinterpreted, entirely innocent event. He tested that hypothesis on John. Told him everything, without a pause and observed his reaction. John stared at hm, eyes wide and full of worry. 'Oh, my God, Sherlock.'

'What do you think? Does it seem real? Am I exaggerating?'

John pressed hands to his face and repeated his words, his tone even sadder now. Perhaps Sherlock should have made that confession when they were alone. Rosie was crawling between them, babbling happily, proud of herself. John bent and scooped her up in his arms protectively.

'It sounds real and disturbing enough for me. Have you talked to Mycroft about it?' He suddenly went pale, even grey and put Rosie back on the floor. 'I'm going to be sick.'

Sherlock only nodded, John came to the same conclusion. But then the pyjamas would be neatly folded on the bed, the only consolation in that awful situation. Of all the possible next steps, an honest conversation with unsuspecting Mycroft was most reasonable.

 

Sherlock did not expect a lasting change in Mycroft's attitude after Sherrinford. The Iceman returned as if nothing had happened and wore the usual expression of mild disinterest and barely concealed disdain, even when Sherlock shared the story of suspected child abuse.

'This is preposterous, even for you, Sherlock.'

'Was it you?'

Of all the countless times when he had crossed the line, this one was the closest to making Mycroft lose his temper with him. Clenched fists, narrowed eyes and no verbal response. Sherlock didn't want to think Mycroft could have done something so abhorrent and vile, yet his brother had always been so obsessively protective of him, always kept tabs on him, he kidnapped John after he had spent mere five minutes in 221 b. Brotherly concern or jealousy?

Mycroft sighed, resigned. 'Fine, if you insist. This is all about your bedwetting problem. You were so frightened by terrifying stories Eurus told you that your bed was never dry in the morning. Mother thought a nice, new pyjamas would help you associate bedtime with pleasant things, but it only fueled your anxiety. You didn't want to ruin your precious pyjamas, so you slept naked. There's your big mystery.'

'That's a nice explanation. Neat. When did you come up with it?'

Mycroft rolled his eyes, exasperated. 'Not everything is complicated.'

'You only tell the truth when you think you're about to die. You want to control me, the whole family and manipulate us the way it suits you.'

'Your point being...?'

There was another possibility. Sherlock gave Mycroft a meaningful look. Eating disorder, self-isolation, non-existing sex life, obsessive-compulsive disorder. Mycroft groaned in annoyance. 'Before you ask, the answer is no.'

'This is what is wrong with us, isn't it? The true reason of all of our unusual traits and preferences. We're different not because of-'

'Stop it, Sherlock. Would you like to know what the real problem is? It's you and your addictive personality. First Carl Powers, then Moriarty. You loved the thrill and the entertainment he provided, even after his death. Now you know what his motivation was and your life is empty again. You needed a new fixation, preferably dark and unsettling, to distract you from the dull cases.'

'Sounds reasonable. Convincing. I don't believe you.'

Mycroft focused on the documents on his desk, signalling his lack of interest in Sherlock's doubts. Sherlock leant over and placed his hand atop Mycroft's, well aware of how much Mycroft disliked unnecessary physical contact. He didn't flinch, didn't show he liked the contact, simply looked Sherlock in the eyes, revealing nothing.

'If there's something you want to get off your chest, I'm here,' he offered clumsily. It felt as awkward as the inevitable change in the family dynamics when the parents become old all of a sudden and the children have to take care of them. 'You don't have to carry this burden alone anymore, I can handle it now.'

'I assume you will not let it go, regardless of whose feelings you hurt in the process. Off you go, then, I'm busy.'

'Was it uncle Rudi?'

'I am not having this conversation.'

 

Before he confronted his parents, Sherlock returned to Musgrave. If it had happened, it happened there. Without the threat of people dying, Sherlock had enough time to look around, absorb the gloomy atmosphere of the abandoned house, hear the echo of his own voice. He decided to check his room first and on his way there, he discovered the source of his earliest memory. Walking up the stairs on a bright day, holding tightly a plump, warm hand. He had always known who led him and now he found the right stairs.

Reluctantly, Mycroft had given him directions to his old room. Sherlock specifically chose a clear, starry night, the moon was nearly full and he could compare the sinister recollection with reality. The room was smaller than he expected, empty. The eerie sensation of entering a dangerous territory stopped him for a moment. The silvery light reached the exactly spot where removed pyjamas would land, close to the space where the bed used to be. Sherlock took a deep breath and walked over there, lay on the cold, filthy floor. He could see the door and the moon. Time flew by and he wasn't any closer to finding the answers. 

In the morning, he would search the entire building for clues the other Sherlock could have left. Then he would do the same with his oldest possessions, drawings, books, toys, everything that Mummy could not part with and stored all those years. He would confront his parents and other family members, including Eurus, and search the depths of his own mind. Mycroft would not be able to stop him from finding the truth, not this time. 


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock found it interesting how people reacted to his private investigation. John had warned him disbelief and denial were to be expected, not due to his attitude and reputation but because no one sane wanted him to have been hurt in such a way. Bearing that in mind, Sherlock began the long process of interviewing family members and teachers. It felt like talking to one person. There were the 'Oh, my God' and 'you poor thing' comments and long, meaningful looks that he read as: _oh, so that's what is wrong with you, huh, I knew something was off and it's good you don't remember more_. 

Strangely enough, not a single person drew the same conclusion as John about Mycroft's role. Sherlock observed his relatives' thought process and could easily tell when they realised that most likely, Mycroft was another victim. Sympathetic heavy sighs, concerned looks, furrowed brows, _what was happening in that house for God's sake?_ Apart from confirming that there was definitely something wrong with the Holmes brothers, those conversations were a waste of time. No one noticed anything, nobody gave Sherlock any clue.

Talking to his parents was equally pointless. After the obligatory nonsense, they admitted they did not remember the pyjamas from Sherlock's recovered memory and were uncertain if his bedwetting was caused by a traumatic event or by drinking before bed. Also, unlike the aunts and cousins, they did not dismiss the idea of Mycroft's involvement so easily.

The last person on the list was Eurus. The least reliable as well. Sherlock anticipated manipulation, but her response to his story seemed genuine. She listened to him and said nothing but dropped her bow and seemed surprised and confused by it. She might have seen something, back in Musgrave, some suspicious activities at night. 

 

With no solid evidence and no reliable witnesses, Sherlock was out of his depth. So far, the only thing he achieved was aggravating the already tense family situation. Mummy hardly needed a new reason to be disappointed in her eldest child. Eurus' progress was halted and she no longer played the violin. John was once again fiercely protective of Sherlock and was prepared to never let Mycroft set foot in 221 B ever again. Mycroft was only mildly annoyed by the accusations and did not seem particularly worried about their sister. 

'She is playing with you. Unable to interfere with your life in a more direct way, she pretends your revelation is something more than an old memory blown out of proportion.' Mycroft explained, voice even and emotionless. 'You've had your fun, caused a scandal and found nothing. I expect you to be more productive now. I've found you a couple of cases that you may find entertaining and worth your while.' 

'I'm not giving up yet. It's true the interviews were discouragingly fruitless and going through my old drawings was only slightly amusing, but I am not out of options yet. I couldn't find the perpetrator, true, but still have victims.'

'Oh, for crying out loud,' Mycroft groaned, exasperated but not surprised. 'Any questions for me?' He could not sound more unenthusiastic.

'Yes, actually. What do you know about Jim Moriarty's childhood?'

That was not a new thought. Sherlock had been wondering about Moriarty's early years, asked himself if it was nature or nurture. Was Moriarty born different or was there a point in his life when he was a gleeful, innocent child? And what had to happen to turn a happy, little Jimmy into Moriarty who killed his bully in cold blood? There was also the fact that, against reason, he and Moriarty had such an instant, strong connection. Was it really only the case of Carl Powers that brought them together? Or did Moriarty find something in Sherlock that was relatable?

Mycroft's face took on a stony expression. 'I think I should blame myself,' he began and Sherlock was confused. There were so many things that Mycroft blamed himself for. 'I should have got rid of Moriarty before he approached you. I honestly have no idea who was more obsessed with whom. Will every future case be in some way linked to him? Are you so desperate to keep him in your life?'

 

Molly could have known something about Moriarty's past. Sherlock told her as little as possible about the mysterious case that required this knowledge. He did not want to see her sad.

'From what he said, I gathered that he was a normal, happy child, but that could've been just a part of the deception.' Molly looked uncertain.

'What exactly did he say?'

'Not much. He wanted to eat French toasts for every meal and he had a green bike. What is this about, Sherlock?'

'And your sex life? Yours with him.'

'I've told you we only went out three times. Nothing happened.'

Sherlock continued asking questions and soon Molly guessed what he implied. 'I don't think he was feeling uneasy with me. It doesn't mean anything. Why now, Sherlock? Has anything-'

'It's for a case. Don't worry, it was a long shot.'

 

Sherlock effortlessly deduced what other people were hiding, even from themselves, but discovering his own secrets was not that easy. He was aware of his habit of changing his memories and repressing them, who could tell what else was waiting to resurface. He always perceived his asexuality as something entirely beneficial. Unlike other boys, he did not waste time on flirting and had no plans to lose his virginity. Despite sympathetic comments and reassuring _you will find someone_ , he did not have the feeling that he was missing out on anything. Family and a growing circle of friends were more than enough.

 

Stockholm was cold and dark, It rained steadily the whole day. Hidden under his black umbrella, he made his way to the meeting point, preparing his speech. The Woman, as expected, was in an amorous mood and greeted him warmly. He quickly revealed the reason of his visit. Of all the people, she was the closest to becoming his sexual partner. Also, in her line of work, she surely met other people with a similar backstory, clients or colleagues. 

Sherlock admired her, she was the only person who did not respond in a cringeworthy, boring way. She quickly recovered and did not seem particularly upset that her plans for the evening went out of the window.

'I can't say I'm surprised, I knew you were damaged in some way. I honestly cannot tell you if your lack of interest in sex has such sinister roots. Have you asked yourself why you can't let it go?'

That was a good question. The need for a satisfying solution was only his initial motivation. The criminal was either dead or old enough to be harmless. Sherlock did not perceive himself as a victim and did not care about vengeance. He could not know who he would have become had his privacy been respected and therefore, there was no regret or resentment. And yet he had just sneaked out of London to consult his case with the Woman. He did not do that for himself.

 

Tracking down Mycroft's sexual or romantic partners was no less difficult than getting in touch with Irene Adler. Sherlock did not remember any friends or colleagues mentioned in an incriminatingly affectionate manner. Mycroft was definitely more knowledgeable about social interactions and for sure manipulated some people by flirting with them, in his own, bizarre fashion, but he was discreet. So, one morning Sherlock came to Mycroft's house to watch him leave and then walk in and go through his personal possessions in search of any detail about his sex life.

It was only six in the morning. Mycroft hadn't left yet. Sherlock stopped far enough from the house to not be seen from the inside, but close enough to see Mycroft on his way out. To his deepest shock, Mycroft was not alone. Someone else's car had passed Sherlock and a familiar figure emerged from the house and got into the car. Lady Elizabeth Smallwood. Sherlock abandoned the plans for a wild goose chase and instead arranged a meeting with the Home Secretary.

 

Elizabeth Smallwood did not show signs of apprehension, although she knew how little ordinary people could hide from Sherlock. 

'What is this mysterious problem with Mycroft that you're having?' She certainly imagined an utterly trivial disagreement.

'I'm afraid he has been abused as a child. Sexually, I think.'

Elizabeth tried to conceal her emotions. Her breathing remained even and she did drop her gaze. But there was a brief moment when she wasn't so composed. A flash of alarm crossed her face. She had known Mycroft for years and must have suspected that he harboured dark secrets. She did what Sherlock predicted, informed him that the conversation was over. She probably wanted to discuss the matter with Mycroft first, establish what sort of help he was willing to accept and what her role in that process was going to be.

For the rest of the day, Sherlock waited for his furious brother to ring him. It did not happen. Elizabeth confronted him, he didn't doubt that, but Mycroft chose not to show how displeased he was with him. There was only one way to determine if Elizabeth gave him his message.

 

Mycroft did not appreciate the company. He had already showered and was about to enjoy a midnight snack and a cigarette. Sherlock hoped the irritation would make him less cautious and collected.

'Anything happened? Anything that could not wait until morning?' Mycroft tightened the belt of his dressing gown and reached for a cigarette packet, then reconsidered.

'I've been to Stockholm, in case you haven't noticed.'

'Still alive, then. Why are you telling me this?'

'She helped me realise something. The reason why I'm still investigating this case, our case.'

'God. What is it?'

'You. I'm doing this for you.'

Mycroft's expression darkened. He stopped being so considerate and lit a cigarette right in front of Sherlock. 'Are you sure? I think it's still all about you.'

'I'm not wounded. I don't need help. I have friends who more or less accept me as I am and my asexuality does not bother me at all. You, on the other hand...'

Mycroft exhaled the smoke slowly. 'If it's true, if it's really _my_ case, then I'm asking you to stop. Stop this. Has it crossed your mind that I did not want daily calls from concerned relatives? Or that I wanted to keep my relationship with Lady Smallwood strictly professional? You can't seem to shut up, Sherlock, slander boldly, something always sticks.'

Despite Mycroft's opinion of him, Sherlock was thinking about respecting his wishes. But... 'It's not slander, Mycroft,' he said, not believing they were having this conversation. 'For God's sake, tell me you understand that.'

Mycroft scowled at him and focused on his cigarette. He wasn't in a maudlin mood and clearly had no intention of confiding in his brother.

'If you're worried I blame you-'

'Oh, my God.'

'Don't. I can imagine you either didn't know or were too scared to say something. Nothing about this is your fault.'

Mycroft anxiously smoked and glanced at the clock. 'It's late,' he stated, as if that was all that needed to be said.

Sherlock extended his arm to initiate an awkward hug but changed his mind.

 

Sherlock had been doing everything to avoid analysing his recovered memory any further. That was the only evidence he had, the only source of information, quite unreliable. It was John who reminded him of it.

'I assume you won't end this without reaching a satisfying conclusion, yet you try as hard as you can to not recall any more details. Have you considered hypnosis? Meditation? Anything that will help you remember who that was and what he said. There's a chance there's nothing ominous about it after all.' 

Sherlock was more inclined to the technique he used to prove that Moriarty was dead, but hypnosis seemed less dangerous and more effective in memory recall. Mycroft would use the false memory syndrome argument, that was obvious, but he was not the only person involved and his opinion was not most important.

 

The psychiatrist's voice sounded distant. Sherlock was back in Musgrave, in his bedroom. The pyjamas, the moon, the hands and the whisper. He knew the man, must have known. The voice, low and quiet, had to be familiar. He could see his the outline of his legs under the duvet and saw the trembling of his hands. It was cold. Encouraged by the psychiatrist, he took a closer look at the man. He was hidden in the dark, Sherlock only saw his hands. Large and strong, nails short. But then he felt it on on his shoulder, the warm touch and finally there was something. A scar, big and smooth, on the palm, from the thumb almost to the wrists. Sherlock felt it against his skin, frozen in shock and let the knowledge seep through him.

 

Mummy was happy to see him. Her usual fussing over her favourite child was now intensified and it took Sherlock almost ten minutes to ask about Daddy. He was in the shed, repairing the door. Someone had broken in and stole most of his tools. The only excitement in this part of England.

'Do tell him to come here and lie down. His blood pressure has been really high lately.'

 

Daddy indeed did not look well. He was panting for breath and tried to hide it when he spotted Sherlock.

'Oh, it's good you're here. Would you mind helping me with these hinges? I really should have brought my glasses.'

'You shouldn't use strap hinges. It's asking for trouble.'

'Well, the new owner of my tools didn't think of simply unscrewing them, so I guess we'll be safe.'

Daddy inspected the door. He had already replaced the broken ledge and one of the boards. The door looked as solid as it needed to be.

Sherlock finished and helped Daddy arrange the new tools inside. Daddy dropped a pruner and knelt down to pick it up. While that itself was not a problem, getting up was a challenge. Sherlock held out his hand and helped his father stand up. He felt it. The scar.

Daddy straightened up and put a hand on his heaving chest. 'Don't tell Mummy, she worries already more than enough.'

'Have you spoken to Mycroft?'

'About this break-in? That's hardly his area of expertise.'

Sherlock went through too much trouble to find out the truth, he wasn't going to stay silent. 'No, I meant about what you've done to him. All things considered, I'm coping really well, but Mycroft... He needs therapy and honest apologies.'

Daddy expected it. He calmly continued sorting the tools. 'We have discussed it, actually. Mycroft mentioned he asked you to stop snooping around and smearing his name.'

'And before? Did he try to tell Mummy? Did he know about me?'

'No and yes. No reason to... bring this up now. Mycroft... is fine.' Daddy barely managed to speak, the pain in his chest and the shortness of breath distracted him from delivering the rehearsed excuse.

'I disagree. I will tell Mummy. I cannot keep a secret like this.'

'Sherlock,' Daddy gasped and grabbed his arm, either to stop him or for support.

'I'm telling her.'

 

When Mycroft joined them at the hospital, Daddy was already recovering from coronary angioplasty. Mummy, in floods about her children and husband, couldn't decide if she wanted to stay there or go home. Daddy was sleeping, they could leave and never face him again.

Sherlock had never seen Mycroft so distraught. Pale-faced and shaking, nearly breathless, his hands were sweating. He ignored Mummy's question and did not specify whether or not he realised what he had done to his brother. Sherlock was about to step in and defend Mycroft, but then Mycroft turned to him, wild with rage, pent-up anger cascading out.

'Look what you've done,' he spoke in a fierce whisper, minding not to disturb Daddy. 'Are you satisfied now? You always do what you want, never caring about the consequences. Look what you've achieved! Look at your father!'

The outburst, although not loud, was more emotional than any other row they had ever had. Sherlock didn't argue, didn't try to explain himself. He wanted Mycroft to let off steam and stop repressing his indignation. But they weren't alone.

'How dare you say that to him?' Mummy was outraged. 'Your brother is very brave and did the only right thing. I regret that you are not as courageous as Sherlock.'

Mycroft looked like he was going to do something violent or wash his hands of his family for good. Sherlock wanted him to be selfish for once in his life, look after himself and not worry about his mad siblings or unsupportive parents. But the moment passed and the Iceman returned. His face took on a frosty expression and his breathing evened.

'You're right, Mummy, I apologise.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can I say, I love Mycroft angst.


	3. Chapter 3

Things returned to normal. Daddy was back at home, still weak but recovering. Sherlock's vague memory of being touched above his waist was not enough to ruin his parents' marriage. Additionally, Mycroft categorically denied he had ever been abused and obviously, Daddy did the same. For once, Mummy did not side with her favourite child, she had barely come to terms with not being able to hug her daughter again. She could not handle another loss.

Sherlock understood his mother, he didn't have a believable proof to convince her. He understood his father's stubborn denial. But he could not comprehend what was going on in Mycroft's head. Mycroft's behaviour in Sherrinford proved beyond doubt that he was sentimental and emotional. His reaction to Daddy's condition showed that he was full of rage and clearly, the person he was furious with was not Sherlock. And yet Mycroft swiftly bottled up his uncomfortable emotions and even hired a nurse for Daddy. A real nurse, not an assassin in disguise.

'You'd be surprised, but it's not unheard of,' John said. 'People forgive and forget. The fact that Mycroft was a child and that it was his own father explain his attitude. I guess it stopped when he hit puberty, he had loads of time to convince himself it wasn't that bad. Also, he knows the pervert won't live long now, that's some consolation.'

That sounded reasonable. Almost forty years, if John was right. Was it enough time to dull the memories and heal the wounds? Sherlock was not sure. A single thought about it made him apprehensive and ill at ease. Mycroft could break down one day. The anxiety did not let Sherlock function normally. He developed a habit of texting Mycroft at least ten times a day, imagining that a message from him might be a sign for Mycroft to not give up.

The person he considered an ally, Lady Smallwood, became unreachable for him. Mummy was too busy to talk to Mycroft and believed there was no reason for it. The third person who knew, John, encouraged Mycroft to seek professional help, unsuccessfully. Sherlock considered including Mrs Hudson or Lestrade and using either of them as a discreet, dedicated therapist-amateur. Someone had to do something, Mycroft was like a ticking time-bomb and Sherlock could not focus on his cases. He never had a reason to worry about him, Mycroft was always the adult one, the big brother, the smart one. He was his rock. Seeing him as a human being, flawed, not altogether logical and possibly self-destructive, was new and terrifying. Mycroft was going to speak to someone about his trauma, whether he liked it or not, so Sherlock could finally be his usual, reckless self.

 

Impeccable, perfectly calm and mildly condescending, Mycroft appeared to be as fine as he claimed he was. No signs of distress, he slept long enough to rest, he neither ate too much or too little and when he got up to close the door to his office after Sherlock, his easy movements disproved Sherlock's theory about self-harm. That only made him more worried.

'I'm still not having a mental breakdown, thank you for asking.'

'How are you feeling?'

'You've asked me already, seven texts today. I feel like a person who is going lose their father in near future. I feel like the brother of Sherlock Holmes. Nothing out of ordinary, I'm afraid. Is there anything else? The French ambassador will not appreciate-'

'How is your relationship with Lady Smallwood?'

Mycroft's expression did not alter. 'As I have already mentioned, entirely professional.'

Hopefully, he was only being discreet. Sherlock wanted to think there was a strong, reliable, trustworthy person who would catch Mycroft if he fell. Elizabeth Smallwood did not abandon her husband when he needed her most.

'Why have you lied to Mummy? She wouldn't accuse you of making it up.'

'I haven't lied. None of the hideous things you supposedly remembered after so many years had ever happened. Memory can be deceptive, Sherlock, surely you understand.'

'Will you consider talking to a therapist?'

'Finding a competent, discreet, _real_ therapist would take ages. My enemies would bump into one another in the office whilst installing recording devices.'

'A group therapy, then. A support group. Me, perhaps. You do trust me, don't you? It will stay between us.'

'Us and John Watson and Molly Hooper and Lady Smallwood.'

'Just us.'

Mycroft rolled his eyes. 'If what you think had happened, if I had been keeping this from you for so long, why would I choose to burden you with it now?'

'Do you blame yourself? John thinks Daddy switched to me because you became too old for his liking. Even if you suspected something and didn't do anything, it is still not your fault.' Sherlock assured him, voice firm. He fought the urge to repeat it a couple of times.

Mycroft exhaled loudly, frustrated. He covered his eyes with his hand and muttered, 'Oh, for goodness' sake.'

'No one would think less of you, if this is what's stopping you.'

'Is that so? Wouldn't people glance at me nervously, wondering if I'm about to commit murder-suicide, like you are doing right now? Wouldn't they doubt my credibility and my judgement? I would become a pariah, people would think twice before opening their mouths in my presence, in case of one the common words is triggering for me. Pity is the last thing I need, I'm sure.'

'I must speak to Elizabeth Smallwood, then. I want to hear how she's trying to help you. You can't be left alone with this.'

'I disagree.'

Sherlock's patience was wearing thin. Mycroft resisted more than expected, despite Sherlock's benevolent intentions and reasonable advice.

'What is wrong with you? Do you want to stay miserable? Is this what you want? Your way of punishing yourself?'

Mycroft looked him in the eyes. 'Sherlock, I know what this is all about. You think you cannot be as irresponsible and childish as usually. You feel uncomfortable and probably guilty because you've never been a protective, loving brother. Absolutely needlessly, I'm used to the entitled, ungrateful little brother. I've had more than enough time to find many ways to cope with it. Do not worry about me and go back to being the Sherlock I know.'

It was one of the moments when Sherlock regretted he had let people like Lestrade, John and Molly into his life. Without them, he would have stayed as cold and repressed as Mycroft and would have believed him it was all for the best.

'I always thought your first seven years, when you were the only child, were the best time of your life, that you were happy and carefree. It's painful to know that it's not true.'

'See? You are still talking about yourself. What would make you feel better? Should I start screaming or become addicted to drugs?'

Sherlock wanted to take Mycroft by the shoulders and shake him and tell him how ridiculous and self-destructive his behaviour was. That was how Mycroft must have felt for the majority of his life, whenever Sherlock insisted on making poor choices and refused to think about consequences. It was a terrible feeling and Sherlock wanted it gone, but he also could not ignore the truth.

'Mycroft,' he said pleadingly, knowing it was too late. Mycroft was all alone with his pain for too long. 

 

Not quite ready to let it go, Sherlock wondered what his options were. Daddy would never admit what he had done, Mummy never noticed anything and Eurus, even if she saw something, would never be believed. Lady Smallwood seemed to agree with Mycroft that the best solution was to sweep it under the rug. John had already discussed the benefits of therapy with Mycroft and was convinced Mycroft was in his mind palace during that monologue.

Even entertaining cases like two separate murders committed in one place, the first murderer was the victim of the second one, did not manage to distract Sherlock. He was beside himself with worry and had no idea how to force Mycroft to do what was best for him, for the entire family.

'Is everything all right?' Molly's voice interrupted his dark thoughts. Of course, she noticed he was troubled and as always offered to at least hear him out. Perhaps locking Molly and Mycroft in one room would be a good idea.

'What would you do if someone close to you required urgent help and denied it?'

'That depends. Are we talking about addictions or-'

'Repressed childhood trauma. Deeply repressed. For around four decades.'

Molly did not reply immediately. She was putting all the pieces together, the reason for Sherlock's interest in Moriarty's early years and the only person who fitted his short description.

'If it's been that long and they seem fine, they probably developed defence mechanisms, strategies to help them handle difficult situations and flashbacks.' 

Sherlock was grateful for her choice of words and professional tone. Technically, he did not disrespect Mycroft's wish to keep the issue private, Molly guessed the identity of the mysterious person on her own.

'Yes, but why not try something more effective? Recover, get better?'

'They might have already got better, you can't know that for sure. They may not want to move on just yet. They may feel guilty. Before you ask, it's not as crazy as it seems. If they were guilty, it means they had a choice and were not helpless. Even if they don't really believe they were responsible, they find comfort in this thought.'

'What do I do, then?' Sherlock miraculously sounded calm, although he felt like screaming in agony. 'I cannot allow it, him blaming himself.'

'You do what he wants you to do. Please, remember that this is not about you. Your opinions and views are not the most important. Whatever he's doing, it clearly works and your disapproval will only make matters worse. Be there for him but on his conditions. And if it becomes overwhelming, you can talk to me.'

She was right. As awful and depressing as it sounded, there was nothing more Sherlock could offer. Informing Mycroft that his way of handling his own trauma was bloody stupid would only affect him negatively. Dragging him to a therapist's office by force wouldn't do much good either. Tearing their family apart wouldn't change what had already happened. 

Mycroft was glad he stopped bothering him. They drifted apart again, this time Mycroft did not try to reach out to Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Classic Mycroft. Well done, me! I love this fic. Good job, team! I'm being so positive bc someone has to. Look, I don't expect much understanding.
> 
> Clearly, this story will never end. Stay tuned for the next chapter of angst.


	4. Chapter 4

Staying away from Mycroft was supposed to encourage him to come to Sherlock and voluntarily open up a bit. Sherlock wanted to be prepared for that. Molly offered her assistance and together they searched for safe, uncontroversial responses to whatever Mycroft would say. It turned out that the majority of Sherlock's comments so far was needless, to say the least. People like Mycroft did not want to hear they could have spared themselves a lot of pain by seeking help earlier or that they shouldn't have believed the lies they were told. Ostentatiously avoiding any mention of sex was as unwelcome as lectures about the benefits of consensual physical intimacy. Suggesting revenge and bad-mouthing the perpetrator was also potentially offensive.

'Is there anything I can say?' Sherlock was clueless.

'Say he's doing great,' Molly replied. 'Tell him you're proud of him and that he's handling this really well. Yes, even if you don't believe it.'

 

The day of the funeral was suitably grey and rainy. The small church near the family home was full of people. Sherlock was sitting next to his mother and couldn't describe how he felt. Daddy's death was not sudden and in the light of recent discoveries, it did not affect him enough to shed a single tear. Relief, that was what he felt when he received a call from Mummy. He assumed that his brother would find the loss liberating, but Mycroft seemed honest in his grief. Gaunt, forlorn and completely useless, forcing Sherlock to organise the funeral. Whatever grooming technique was used on Mycroft, it was about to stop working, like a broken evil spell. Sherlock wanted to think that after the funeral, perhaps not on the same day but soon, Mycroft would pour his heart out to him. 

Another hymn. Sherlock didn't sing, neither did Mycroft. John had wondered if Mycroft would attend the funeral. There were so many reasons for him to ignore the family obligations, including spending hours in the company of gossip-loving relatives. But Mycroft came, vulnerable, and exposed and not alone. He brought a shield that now was separating him from Sherlock. Elizabeth Smallwood. Sherlock couldn't even glance at his harrowed, pale and numbed brother.

Sherlock understood the need for emotional support on that particular day. He wasn't on his own either, all of his friends were there, including Rosie. However, Elizabeth's task was not only to be the shoulder to cry on. Her presence and the undefined relationship with Mycroft diverted everyone's attention from Mycroft himself. After the service, the family went out with the coffin and the rest of the mourners gathered in the family house. Elizabeth didn't leave Mycroft even for a second. When they were all in the house, in the sea of tea, coffee, sandwiches and condolences, Mycroft and Elizabeth stayed on the edge of the crowd. Sherlock observed them and had to admit she was good. No, she was perfect. She never left Mycroft's side and whoever dared to approach them had to deal with her. The day could have been horrendous for Mycroft, but Elizabeth prevented questions about _that thing that Sherlock was obsessed with last year_. She played either an enigmatic, possibly dangerous government official or a cringeworthy, over-sharing, loved-up woman. Thanks to her, Mycroft avoided talking to anyone for longer than two minutes and the topics were strictly controlled by Elizabeth. They must have planned it, it was too well-organised to be a spontaneous decision.

Sherlock wondered if Elizabeth would scare him away as well. He kept the distance, not wanting to make Mycroft feel ambushed. He stood surrounded by his protectors: Molly, John and Greg. Rosie wanted to watch raindrops on the windowpane and Greg put her on the windowsill and put one hand on her lower back to steady her. Sherlock looked at Mycroft and saw him eyeing Greg uneasily. Sherlock whispered to John to take Greg's place. Mycroft's grip on his glass loosened.

The rain did not ease off, yet that didn't stop Mycroft and Elizabeth from sneaking out for a smoke. Sherlock followed them. They walked slowly towards Mycroft's favourite hiding spot, the empty stables. Mycroft used to go there when his starved for attention little brother was driving him mad. At least Sherlock hoped that was the only reason. He couldn't see them well, the black umbrella was obscuring the view, but he noticed Elizabeth's hand slid up Mycroft's back. Whether that cosy display was rehearsed or genuine, Sherlock was glad that Mycroft was not alone. He left them and returned to the house. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lizzie Smallwood to the rescue! Don't mind me, I just love her so much.
> 
> This was supposed to be longer, but I don't know if making it all about Mycroft is what the readers want.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I watched only 5 minutes of Patrick Melrose before I had to pause to write this.

Sherlock stayed the night at home after the funeral. In the morning he found his mother in the kitchen, sitting by the table. There was cooling tea in front of her and toasts, and a bowl of porridge, all untouched. Sherlock doubted she made the breakfast, she barely even noticed him and said nothing to him. He looked around, wondering who else was in the house. He was sure Mycroft left the previous night, but he must have stayed, thinking that Sherlock had gone back to London.

It was indeed Mycroft. Sherlock found him upstairs, surrounded by boxes that Sherlock had brought there. Since suddenly Sherlock was the only rational Holmes, he planned to clear the house of his father's possessions. He started the day before, mercilessly emptying drawers and wardrobes. He wanted to leave nothing behind, erase the memories of the man who hurt Mycroft. And yet Mycroft was doing the opposite: he was sitting on the floor and going through the boxes to divide the contents into two piles on his left and right.

'What are you still doing here?' Mycroft didn't look too happy to see him. Before Sherlock answered, he continued, 'I appreciate your not consulting with me what to keep and what to throw away. He was not just your father, the decision is not only yours.'

'Why would you want to keep anything?' Sherlock was baffled. Mycroft's grief was one thing, but taking old photos and books was completely ridiculous.

Mycroft didn't look at him, busy with choosing which ties he wanted to take. 'He was my father. What is so hard to understand? You have other father figures in your life, I don't. Will you stay here with your perplexed expression or will you let me finish this?'

'You don't have to do this. He's gone, Mycroft, you can stop pretending.'

Mycroft took a long, deep breath before he replied. 'We shouldn't talk right now. I've never been verbally aggressive with you and I want it to stay this way.'

That sounded reasonable, but Sherlock wanted Mycroft to stop repressing his emotions.

'Why would you want to remember the man who raped you?'

Mycroft still avoided Sherlock's eyes. 'Why am I not surprised you speak ill of the dead? You only care about your feeling and your beliefs, don't you? And for the last time, nothing like that ever happened. Stop making these appalling accusations.'

'What exactly never happened? He didn't come to your bedroom at night? Why do I remember him touching me in my bedroom?'

'Oh, for goodness' sake, that was one time, only one time and you make it sound like-' Mycroft stopped abruptly, realising what he had done.

'How do you know it was only one time?' Sherlock asked, feeling like he was going to get sick. He hardly needed a confirmation of his suspicion, but now he knew for sure that his father did take advantage of him when he was a little boy.

Mycroft took a moment to think about what he was going to say. He had no reason to hide the truth anymore, but he still hesitated.

'No, I wasn't there when he came to you, if that's what you think. He told me afterwards. It was my fault, Sherlock, I refused him for the first, and last, time, not knowing what it meant for you. I should have known he would... I made sure he would never need your company, or our sister's.'

Sherlock stared at him, lost for words, processing what Mycroft had revealed and what he actually meant. Of course, Mycroft chose to sacrifice his well-being to protect his siblings. Of course, he blamed himself for whatever happened.

He wished he could embrace Mycroft. The moment he reached out to touch him, Mycroft shifted away.

'So, you let him rape you to keep me safe,' Sherlock said, surprised to hear his voice was breaking. 'Mycroft, you shouldn't have.'

'Stop using this word,' Mycroft protested. 'It wasn't like that. There was never any violence.'

'That changes absolutely nothing.'

'He told me exactly what was going to happen and how I could make it easier for myself,' Mycroft added, probably repeating what he had been telling himself all those years. 'He didn't touch me between my legs, never. He only needed my mouth. He never raped me. I would appreciate it if you stopped saying that.'

Sherlock had never felt worse. Not only because Mycroft filled in the blanks in his old memory. That, the knowledge of what exactly happened after he had taken off his pyjamas, was awful, but not as much as Mycroft's words. Or were they Daddy's words, whispered in the dark? Sherlock looked at Mycroft and couldn't help but wonder if he was talking to his adult brother or the small boy who had to grow up too soon. He never doubted Mycroft's intelligence and couldn't understand why Mycroft still believed in those lies.

Mycroft didn't wait for his comments and grabbed another box. Photographs. So much easier to get rid of them in the digital era. Mycroft opened a thick album and fondly gazed at the pictures. Sherlock wanted to yank the album from his hands and threw it out the window. Instead, he took his phone and quickly checked how exactly rape was defined in the UK. _Or mouth_ , he read. 

He showed it to Mycroft, who gently pushed his hand away. 'I'm busy, Sherlock.'

'It was rape.'

'No, it wasn't,' Mycroft insisted, raising his voice. He closed the album and stood up. 'Why do you want the worst case scenario? Why do you care? It hardly affected you.'

'Because I care about you. It doesn't really matter how you define it, you were under thirteen, weren't you? That's statutory rape.'

Mycroft was getting more and more angry with each time Sherlock used that word. He was breathing hard and kept clenching and unclenching his fists. Sherlock watched that, thinking if Mycroft was about to punch him. 

'When did it end? When we moved here? When you went to boarding school?'

Mycroft didn't reply. Sherlock started thinking about what he did remember from his childhood and adolescence. Was there any tension between Mycroft and Daddy? Did they spend time without Sherlock, just the two of them? He couldn't be sure. But it seemed likely. It must have been so convenient for Daddy, having a perfectly manipulated boy who never dared to say no again. Mycroft was exactly the kind of person who would do everything to keep the family together, perhaps he thought it was a suitable penance for letting down Eurus. Sherlock didn't know how to explain to him he got it all wrong.

'You can tell me,' he tried to use a softer tone of voice and put his hand on Mycroft's arm. 'You can tell me everything.'

Mycroft's anger reached boiling point. He roughly shoved Sherlock away from him, with so much force that Sherlock swayed and nearly fell down. They stared at each other, equally shocked by the turn of events. Sherlock hoped it felt cathartic for Mycroft, for him it was horrible. Mycroft never resorted to physical violence and that very first time was worse than expected, particularly because Mycroft, most likely, wanted to do it someone else and missed his chance.

They stood there, not knowing how to react. Sherlock suddenly remembered what Molly said, what was the safest thing he could tell Mycroft. 'I think you're doing great.'

The tension that had just left Mycroft returned. He fumed, 'Oh, whose words are these? Molly Hooper's? Shut your mouth, Sherlock.'

 

Sherlock wanted to keep it all to himself, but as soon as he walked into his flat and saw John, words started pouring out his mouth without his control. For once, John limited his exclamations and listened.

'I've always thought I dislike the concept of sucking cock because it's so unsanitary. How many men wash before sex? Also, people often do it without a condom, ignoring the risk of STD,' Sherlock said, so fast he had troubles following his own train of thoughts. 'And now Mycroft told me it's because my first and only time doing this was with my own father. Is this why it bothers me so much?'

John brought him a glass of water and urged Sherlock to take a sip. 'And now breathe. Just like that, nice, deep breaths.'

After a moment or two, Sherlock stopped shaking. He realised he didn't have problems with his gag reflex, not when he was brushing his teeth nor when he was smoking. That was a good sign, he thought. He was coping much better than his brother. That thought caused a great wave of guilt. He was less damaged only because of Mycroft.

'Oh, God,' he groaned. 'Is that why Mycroft was overweight? He's a comfort eater, that I knew, but now I wonder if he deliberately wanted to make himself appear undesirable. What do you think?'

'That's possible,' John agreed.

'The more sweets he ate, the worse was the state of his teeth. Both brushing and seeing a dentist reminded him of... I remember asking him why he doesn't take a better care of his teeth if he hates dentists so much.'

'You didn't know, Sherlock, don't think about it. You can help Mycroft now, I suggest you do that by not forcing him to define what was done to him.'

Sherlock gave a nod, John was right and so was Molly, but neither of them heard Mycroft's confession. Sherlock couldn't let Mycroft defend their father. Just thinking about what Mycroft said made Sherlock's blood boil.

'Please, don't take this the wrong way,' John started hesitantly. 'I've researched this subject and... Look, it's not a black-and-white situation. Predatory people like your father want to involve the victim and make them responsible for the abuse. After a while, the victim thinks it's the only way to receive attention and sadly, affection. Which means they not only don't try to escape but also initiate... contact. If you're right and Mycroft endured it much longer than we assumed, then it probably became a natural thing for him, something that just happens.'

Sherlock was glad John didn't say what was really on his and Sherlock's minds. Mycroft never abandoned the family, didn't sever the ties with Daddy. Maybe Mycroft developed feelings for him? As a coping mechanism? Sherlock wanted to tell Mycroft that, again, no one sane would blame him for that and again, he felt nauseous and helpless. 

 

The annual Christmas party didn't go as planned. Sherlock, sensing Mycroft's unfading hostility, didn't invite him, for the first time. Mycroft, unexpectedly, rang him and asked him about the lack of invitation, puzzled and secretly offended.

'You never came to my party,' Sherlock pointed out, confused.

'True, but it's nice to have a choice.'

'You are invited to come, of course. Bring anyone you want,' Sherlock added cunningly. He wanted to talk to Lady Smallwood for so long and now he had a chance.

 

It wasn't as awkward as he imagined. He discussed it with Molly and John, both of them promised not to bring up the subject. Greg, who was still unaware of which Holmes needed his support most, was one of the most important guests and Sherlock ensured he had no other plans for that night. He was hoping Greg would distract his brother, so he could have a moment to quickly interrogate Elizabeth.

At first, the company of Sherlock's grumpy brother and the Home Secretary made others uncomfortable. Fortunately, drinks helped everyone loosen up. After the second glass of wine, Elizabeth was constantly smiling and her hand barely left Mycroft's knee. Her fingers slowly caressed his leg, from time to time she gave him a squeeze or a playful smack when something amused her. Nobody addressed the elephant in the room, _Mycroft and a woman?! Mycroft and an older woman?!_ Sherlock, just like other people, only stared, discreetly. Nothing indicated that Mycroft did not enjoy the touch. He smiled at Elizabeth and couldn't care that much about what other people thought about him to fake it. He didn't flinch when Elizabeth's hand was suddenly definitely on his inner thigh. It was Sherlock who cringed at that, although he could understand that strange relationship. Privately, Elizabeth was affectionate and caring and Mycroft clearly needed that more than tough love. Not to mention the very obvious fact that she was nothing like Daddy. She couldn't hurt Mycroft exactly like Daddy did and with her, Mycroft felt safe. 

At one point, Mycroft got up to pop outside for a quick smoke. Greg thought it was a great idea and decided to join him. Mycroft gave Sherlock a venomous glare, but didn't protest and followed Greg outside.

Elizabeth, now cheerily drunk, reconsidered and wanted to join the party downstairs. Sherlock went after her and stopped her on the stairs.

'How is Mycroft feeling? Is he seeing a therapist, anyone? Does he talk to you about it?'

Elizabeth didn't appreciate his manners, but she knew he was concerned about his brother.

'He's feeling better, I think. He likes to reminisce about his childhood, he has lots of happy memories involving your father, believe it or not. Losing him is more painful in these circumstances,' she waved her hand. 'Mycroft feel he cannot discuss it with his family. I know he told you what he told me,' she paused for a moment to press a hand to her mouth, a reaction Sherlock knew all too well. 'I'm afraid he really believes in his version of events.'

'What do we do, then?'

'Listen to him. Let him talk. You have to be patient, Mycroft needs time,' she said and walked away, leaving Sherlock frustrated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to see a happily tipsy Lady Smallwood... for strictly scientific reasons.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock returned to the flat, dissatisfied with Mycroft's progress. He was hoping to hear something more optimistic from Lady Smallwood. That chapter in Mycroft's life was supposed to be closed, once and for all. Sherlock couldn't understand why Mycroft clung desperately to memories of their father. It'd been months since he did them all a huge favour and died, and Mycroft was still grieving.

John noticed him and came up, looking concerned. 'Are you all right?'

That was a question Sherlock started to hear often. He had to tell someone how far Mycroft was willing to go to protect him. He couldn't keep it to himself. He tried not to think about his then-teenage brother who thought he had managed to put an end to his abuse and who was promptly forced to reconsider his choice. John assured him that it wasn't his fault, that neither he nor Mycroft could be blamed for their father's deeds. Sherlock discovered it was much easier to say things like that to hear them. He did feel guilty. Even if what happened to Mycroft wasn't his fault, he was undeniably a horrible younger brother. Self-centred, unsupportive and ungrateful. In his obliviousness, he made no effort to help Mycroft get through the vexatious period of his life. He remembered how often he would start a fight with Mycroft when he was little just to get his attention. Knowing what Mycroft was struggling with at that time made Sherlock angry with himself and no amount of John's 'it's not your fault' arguments changed that.

'Yes, I'm fine,' he replied automatically. He looked at Molly, who was listening to Mrs Hudson's recount of her latest row with Mr Chatterjee. Molly nodded when it was appropriate and asked enough questions to keep the landlady from noticing what else what happening in the flat. Sherlock was grateful for that, it'd be a disaster if Mrs Hudson misinterpreted the tension between the brothers and started a wine-fueled rant about Mycroft the uncaring big brother.

'These things take time,' John added quietly. 'There's no easy fix.'

He was right, obviously, yet Sherlock's frustration was growing.

The three smokers came back. Elizabeth came in first, looking far less cheerful. Mycroft followed her in silence. He was breathing hard, he clenched his jaw and pointedly avoided Sherlock's eyes. Greg looked uneasy and intentionally walked slower to put some distance between himself and Mycroft. He stood by the door for a moment, then walked up to Sherlock and John.

'Is there something going on here?' He sounded worried. 'Your brother seemed... more mistrustful than usually.'

Sherlock supposed Mycroft would react like that to any contact with Greg. He remembered how annoyed he was with his brother when Mycroft sent Greg to keep a close eye on him in Baskerville. It wasn't just Greg's straightforwardness that angered Mycroft, he must have assumed Greg was one of knew the truth about him. The entirely innocent, unrehearsed smoke break seemed like an ambush.

Mycroft tried to calm down and appear as cool and detached as before, but couldn't. He nervously sneaked a look at the people in the flat, checking if they were staring at him. The fact that they didn't changed very little, Mycroft clearly felt deeply uncomfortable. Lady Smallwood diverted everyone's attention from Mycroft by starting a discussion about the worst Christmas gifts. Mycroft's gloomy silence was barely noticeable among the laughs.

Sherlock refilled Mycroft's glass and handed it to him. Mycroft took the tumbler and regretted it when he saw his hand was shaking. He took a sip to steady his nerves, then another. Sherlock discreetly took out his phone and dialled Mycroft's number. A very important phone call he had to take in Sherlock's bedroom was a believable excuse to leave the company for a couple of minutes and cool off.

Sherlock followed him after a moment. He found Mycroft pacing the room and gripping the now empty tumbler with such force it was a miracle it hadn't broken yet. Seeing his brother didn't only make Mycroft more anxious. Sherlock closed the door to block out the cheerful chatter and laughter. The noise was getting on his nerves, too.

'I can't believe you told him,' Mycroft said and cringed at his unsteady voice. 'You've told all of your friends.'

'I didn't. I only told John. Molly guessed. No one else knows.'

'Irene Adler. You told her.'

'Only about myself. Mycroft, breathe. Lestrade doesn't know, he's only trying to be friendly.'

'How else can you explain his intrusive questions? Maybe you didn't tell him the whole truth, maybe only _be nice to my poor, suffering brother_.'

'I think you'd notice if I said something like that to Mrs Hudson,' Sherlock said with a cheeky smile. That, however, wasn't enough to defuse the situation. 'I actually instructed John and Molly to do the opposite. It worked, didn't it? They didn't even blink at Lady Smallwood stroking your thigh,' he pointed out with just a hint of accusation. He shuddered at the very vivid memory.

'If only you could have kept your mouth shut, Sherlock. If only you respected my privacy. I could've been at home now, having to prove absolutely nothing to anyone,' Mycroft seethed and again squeezed the glass. Sherlock was about to suggest a stress ball but reconsidered. 'But now, because of you, I can't avoid any social occasion. Everyone expects to see a depressed, unstable, maniacal Mycroft making a spectacle of himself.'

'No, you're mistaken. No one expects that. If anything, people want you to relax, enjoy yourself, get better.'

Mycroft's chest started rising and falling rapidly, his breath coming in sharp, fast gulps of air. His face became redder and redder, his hands shaking helplessly by his sides.

'You told our entire family,' he reminded angrily. He couldn't control the volume of his voice and Sherlock was certain that mentioning that would end unpleasantly. 'Everyone knows!'

'They don't know for sure,' Sherlock clarified. 'They saw Mummy, you and me at the funeral, the obvious assumption is that I was wrong and we were a normal family.'

'I never wanted anyone to know,' Mycroft continued, his voice lower now. 'You told everyone.'

'Why did you want to keep it a secret? To keep us together? Or were you ashamed?' Sherlock felt the tension building in the room but didn't stop. Mycroft looked like he was about to burst and if he had to do that, it was best to avoid witnesses. 'You shouldn't be. You have nothing to be ashamed of.'

That definitely hit the raw nerve. Mycroft clenched his hands and finally crushed the tumbler in his fist. He looked down at his hand, startled by the broken glass and blood. The shock of his injury numbed him and he didn't seem to think about tending to his wound. His anger subsided enough for Sherlock to approach him without fear.

'It's all right,' he said softly and reached out to take Mycroft's hand in his. Mycroft let him. 'Open your fist, let me see.'

Sherlock never loved the idea of the additional door to the bathroom more. They went there unnoticed by the guests. Mycroft, suddenly completely helpless, stood still when Sherlock was removing the glass. Sherlock, while still shaken, was cautiously optimistic about their relationship. Mycroft accepted his help. He could've shoved him away and stormed out of the flat to lick his wounds in the privacy of his house, but stayed.

'Did you really tell the truth?' Mycroft asked quietly. 'Lestrade doesn't know?'

'He doesn't. Don't worry, I'll explain your behaviour somehow. He very gullible,' Sherlock remarked almost fondly. He was washing the palm of Mycroft's hand and Mycroft didn't react in any way, although that had to sting. 'Did you want to come here to show my friends how wrong we all were about you?'

Mycroft scoffed. 'When you put it this way, it sounds sad.'

'You don't owe us anything, I mean the family. If you want to skip every family dinner, wedding and funeral, do it. Who could blame you?'

'No, that would be the admission of guilt. It's a miracle that Elizabeth helps me with this. She's coming for Christmas dinner, in case you're wondering. Now she's entertaining your guests, making sure they won't realise how long we've been here. ' Mycroft smiled briefly. 'I'm so confused by this. After you blabbed my secret to her, I was prepared for worst, yet she only offered her support. This was her idea, accompanying me to family gatherings.'

Sherlock took Mycroft's advice and kept his mouth shut. All of the comments he wanted to make would only enrage Mycroft again. He focused on dressing the wound. It felt odd to reverse their usual roles. Mycroft would look after him whenever he was going through a withdrawal, always with impressive patience and tenderness. Not once did he tell Sherlock he had brought it on himself. Most likely he blamed himself for Sherlock's addictions.

'I can admit I overreacted, Sherlock, I think you would have been discreet had I been honest with you. I never thought you would recover those memories. I panicked and you, unknowingly, made it all much worse by discussing it with everyone who listened. I can't believe I didn't have a heart attack when you told Mummy,' Mycroft said quietly as if Mummy were right behind him.

They went back to the bedroom, just in time. They heard footsteps, the bathroom door was opened, someone came in. Greg. Mycroft immediately started picking up the broken glass from the floor.

'He won't come in here, relax. Leave that, sit, I'll do it,' Sherlock offered and had to repeat that twice before Mycroft listened.

Having Sherlock clean up his mess was new. Mycroft didn't look convinced he could actually do it properly, but he had bigger worries.

'Do you realise what would have happened if Moriarty or Magnussen were still alive? It hardly matters if cousin Tom and aunt Jane know the details about my past. You shared this with so many people.' Mycroft took a seat on the edge of the bed and put his face in his hands. The sound he made sounded a lot like a sob.

Sherlock put the pieces of the tumbler on the nightstand. He felt he should hug Mycroft, comfort him somehow. He settled for a quick pat on the shoulder.

Mycroft lowered his hands and looked at him. 'Sooner or later someone will use it against me. I thought having only one pressure point, you, was bad enough. Perhaps I should simply retire and leave the country before someone drags my name through the mud.'

A heavy weight in his chest barely let Sherlock take a deeper breath. Mycroft wasn't trying to make him feel guilty, but that was exactly how he felt. Guilty and helpless and furious with their father.

He couldn't find appropriate words. Mycroft's concerns were understandable. His obsessive need to control every aspect of his life was most likely caused by the abuse and it had to be distressing when Sherlock took some of that power away from him. Neither Mycroft nor Daddy were interested in revealing the truth, it seemed that it was one of the reasons they remained on good terms. And then Sherlock started to remember what happened and did the exact thing that frightened Mycroft for decades.

A knock on the door almost made him jump. It was John. 'Are you all right here?' He asked before he noticed their miserable expressions and Mycroft's hand. 'Do you need-'

'Thank you, Dr Watson, everything is fine,' Mycroft replied coolly. He managed to compose himself, ready to go back to the party. He walked past John, leaving the two friends alone.

'Is it bad?'

Was it? Sherlock felt terrible, but there was some progress. Mycroft didn't entirely reject his help and opened up to him a bit.

'John, what are your plans for Christmas Day?'


	7. Chapter 7

The first Christmas Day without Daddy was somehow more stressful than the one when Sherlock drugged everyone to deal with Magnussen. Mummy's sister Anne and her family were invited and when Sherlock heard that, he knew it was going to be hard for Mycroft. For him, too. Sooner or later, someone would mention Daddy or Sherlock's little investigation. On top of that, returning to the family house for the first time since the funeral was not something that he or Mycroft looked forward to. But there was no choice. Mycroft felt forced to come and pretend he was doing great and Sherlock wanted to support him.

Sherlock arrived with John and Rosie. Rosie couldn't be happier, Father Christmas brought her a toy medical kit and she was so engrossed in exploring it that she forgot to fuss, although she hated car rides. She finally had her own stethoscope and didn't need to look through her Daddy's things to find his. John, satisfied with killing two birds with one stone, dutifully played the role of a very sick patient and let her listen to his heart and check his pulse. Sherlock was next and once the examination was over, he told Rosie she was going to have many more patients at home. He was hoping her very serious looking doctor bag would make her the centre of attention.

Mycroft was waiting for them outside. He used his cigarette as an excuse to avoid contact with Rosie. Rosie, proudly holding her bag, was taken aback by his reluctance, but she heard voices of other potential patients and John took her inside. Sherlock stayed. Mycroft was already strung out, his hands were shaking. No doubt he was counting minutes to the moment when he could finally leave.

'Is Lady Smallwood here?' Sherlock couldn't imagine she would abandon him on that particular day, but Mycroft was standing there alone.

'Yes. She's inside. It seems more natural when I don't follow her everywhere. Listen, Sherlock, I admit I wasn't able to clearly articulate my needs earlier. I'm asking you now to be tactful. Don't mention anything that could upset Mummy. If anyone talks about Daddy, don't show how it makes you feel. I don't want this day to be more stressful than it already is. Can you do that for me, please?'

'Yes,' Sherlock agreed. He remembered how terribly distraught Mycroft was at his Christmas party. He was only willing to talk about Daddy when they were alone. Sherlock understood that making a scene in the middle of the dinner wouldn't make anyone feel better. 'What about another day? An honest conversation with Mummy, what do you think?'

Mycroft groaned and dropped the cigarette on the ground. 'I'm asking you to do one thing for me. Is it really too much?'

 

Rosie was indeed a welcome distraction. At first, she was a bit overwhelmed by the people she saw only once, at the funeral, but Aunt Anne and her two adult sons had nothing against an unscheduled house call. Rosie was relieved there were no other children there and she didn't have to switch and become the patient. John was a nurse and patiently offered instructions. Rosie didn't completely agree with him, she insisted that cousin Paul required a shot in his left knee and administered the injection.

Mummy was doing better. The preparations helped her focus on something else than grief. The house was decorated and delicious smells were coming in from the kitchen. 'It's what Daddy would've wanted,' she kept saying. Mycroft nodded every time, looking more and more concerned that celebrating Christmas with the whole family might become a tradition. He clearly came there only to support Mummy and show how very undamaged he was. 

Rosie lost interest in being a doctor and joined Sherlock when he was laying the table, then followed him to the kitchen. When she spotted Mycroft, who seemed to be the only person who didn't want to play with her at all, she started staring at him. Her puzzlement was endearing, but not to Mycroft. Rosie approached him, holding her otoscope above her head to make her intention clear. Mycroft ignored her, using cutting potatoes as an excuse.

'Leave that,' Mummy said, annoyed with how long it took him to cut a single potato. She didn't understand his need to measure the pieces perfectly. 'Why don't you let Doctor Watson the younger examine you?' She smiled at Rosie, who was beaming at the title.

Sherlock was about to bribe Rosie with a mince pie, but then Lady Smallwood came in and she offered to be the new patient. Mycroft looked at her with such gratitude and affection that Sherlock felt like an intruder for seeing that. Rosie checked Elizabeth's blood pressure and announced she had none. Mycroft allowed himself a small smile at that and continued cutting the potatoes the way he wanted. As soon as he was done, he exited the kitchen and Elizabeth went after him when she got an injection.

Rosie packed her doctor's bag and decided to try a new profession. She helped Mummy with the potatoes and took her job of salting the water very seriously. Sherlock watched that, sitting in the chair. he remembered the last Christmas Day he spent with he family when he was sitting int he same chair, reading about Lord Smallwood's suicide. It suddenly dawned on him that Lady Smallwood's motivation for helping Mycroft was not entirely altruistic. Perhaps that was her way of coming to term with her loss. She couldn't change what happened to her husband but could prevent a similar tragedy from happening to another person she cared about. Mycroft probably knew that and her considerable baggage made his appear smaller. Sherlock again felt grateful for her holding Mycroft's hand when he needed that.

 

Rosie got bored with cooking and insisted on examining Mummy. Sherlock went to look for John and found him by the fireplace, looking pensive. Christmas Day in Sherlock's parents' house was hard for him for more than one reason, but he pulled himself together when he saw Sherlock. He didn't want to be asked about Mary, his family, her family.

'I haven't heard any screaming or crying,' he said lightly. 'Rosie must be up to something.'

'She was helping my mother. Don't expect too much from roast potatoes,'

'How's Mycroft? I didn't have a chance to take a look at his hand.'

'It's healing. Have you seen him anywhere? He disappeared with Lady Smallwood.'

'No. Is there a chance they quietly drove away?' John's tone of voice suggested he'd prefer to go home, but not celebrating Christmas when he had a small child was impossible. 'I'll go see how she's doing.'

Sherlock went outside. Mycroft was nowhere to be seen. Sherlock even checked the shed. He came back to the house, climbed the stairs, thinking that Mycroft took refuge in his old bedroom. The door was closed. Sherlock raised his hand to knock when he heard something. Whispers, a delighted chuckle, a muffled moan, heavy breathing. Sherlock froze, shocked enough to stay there a moment longer, listening to more obvious audible cues. There was only one logical explanation and just admitting that to himself made him extremely uncomfortable. He stood there like a fool, with a grimace on his face. He doubted Mycroft would appreciate his concern and forced himself to go downstairs.

Aunt Anne stopped him to discreetly ask about Lady Smallwood. Sherlock, still mortified, revealed he once tried to help Lady Smallwood when she was blackmailed. As he was saying that he began wondering if it bothered Mycroft, the fifteen-year-girl involved with Lord Smallwood. He remembered how dismissive Elizabeth was about that situation. Mycroft wouldn't have said anything to her, but it had to be difficult.

 

He had to tell someone about what he almost walked in on. John was the ideal candidate. Sherlock found him monitoring Rosie's exploration of the Christmas tree.

John's brows shot up in surprise. 'Really? Right now? Here? Oh, God.'

'Yes. As we speak.'

'Well, that's one way to avoid stress during Christmas,' John attempted a laugh, but it sounded weak. A sexually active Mycroft was the last thing he wanted to think about. 'Jesus. They will know we know. Kick me if I start staring at them or trying very hard not to stare, all right?'

'If you do the same for me. We both agree the timing and place are not ideal, right?'

John didn't reply immediately. 'Hmm. Actually... If I were him, I'd do the same. It's better for his health than getting drunk or smoking. He'll get through this day better than we will. Also, I guess he wants better memories about his bedroom. Whatever he's doing up there with Lady Smallwood is consensual, that's a nice change.'

Sherlock had to admit he had a point. Mycroft was going to inherit the house someday and it was a good idea to create new, positive associations with it. Plus, the longer he was up in his room, the less time Rosie and Aunt Anne had to nettle him. It all made sense, but Sherlock couldn't help feeling uneasy.

 

The dinner was exactly as dreadful as Sherlock imagined. At first, Mycroft was in a good mood. His unusual demeanour attracted attention. He seemed... peaceful, not apprehensive and miserable. It was almost disconcerting. He didn't look doleful enough for the person who recently lost his dear father. That had to irk Mummy. She didn't completely forgive Mycroft for keeping Eurus away from her and her absence on a day like that was particularly painful. And Mycroft, clearly encouraged by Elizabeth, dared to focus on his own life instead of apologising for his mistakes.

Sherlock had never paid closer attention to his plate before. He pushed Brussel sprouts from one place to another, used parsnips to separate bread sauce from cranberry sauce, stuck a piece of potato between pigs in a blanket. He didn't want to look up and start deducing who was going to snap first. Apart from that, he couldn't stop wondering if Mycroft and Lady Smallwood washed their hands... and other body parts. His mind offered awfully vivid images of two naked bodies pressed together and he couldn't hide his wincing. He chewed each bite of the turkey unusually slowly to make his facial expression unreadable.

John was the lucky one. He felt the tension building but had the perfect excuse to ignore it. Rosie needed his help, that was obvious, he couldn't look away from her for even a moment. She prefered dropping her fork than holding it and the temptation to dip her fingers in chestnut stuffing was just too great to resist. John had his hands full and that was why he didn't make eye contact with either Mycroft or Lady Smallwood.

They almost made it to the pudding without mentioning the two absent family members. Mummy couldn't let Mycroft enjoy the dinner without feeling guilty for separating Eurus from them.

'I wish she were here with us, my darling daughter. I wish, Mycroft, you told us the truth sooner. You could have spared your father years of immense grief.'

Sherlock lifted his head and saw Mycroft was unsurprised and a perhaps even relieved she finally said that. He was so used to being held responsible for others' faults and accepted Mummy's lack of understanding.

'I feared for your father's health when you finally stopped being dishonest with us. The shock took a heavy toll on his body. He couldn't even hug her, after all those years of missing her dearly.'

Mycroft didn't say anything, as the unemotional Iceman he pretended to be. His quiet resignation was painful to watch. Lady Smallwood suppressed her urge to ignore Mycroft's wishes and remained quiet. Sherlock wanted to defend him, but Mycroft looked at him and shook his head.

Rosie looked up from her plate and noticed long faces all around and the heavy silence. Her reaction was more sensible than anyone else's. She burst into tears. Her cries deepened Mycroft's sorrow. Rosie's sadness turned into glee with the first bite of the pudding. Mycroft couldn't swallow his.


	8. Chapter 8

Mycroft and Lady Smallwood were leaving early to have dinner with her family. Sherlock was sure that was only an excuse to get away from Mummy and spend Christmas like God intended: drinking by a fireplace. He couldn't imagine why Mycroft would make such a sacrifice for someone who was not related to him. He was exhausted and desperately needed peace and quiet, not another stressful dinner.

Sherlock went with them outside to wait for the car. Not only to make sure that Mycroft wasn't about to fall to pieces. The unavoidable stress of spending Christmas at home resulted in a specific craving. Sherlock hoped that one, only one cigarette, would help him get through it.

Astonishingly, neither Mycroft nor Elizabeth reached for their packets as soon as they stepped outside, although both looked like they badly needed a smoke or two.

'Sorry, Sherlock, we can't, not right now,' Mycroft said sadly. 'We can't reek of cigarettes.'

So they really were going to endure another awkward dinner.

Lady Smallwood let out a long sigh, preparing herself for the inevitable. 'I'm so glad you agreed to this,' she told Mycroft. 'For once they will have to pretend they don't despise me. Ugh, bloody hell. I've been dreading this moment. Maybe we could take you with us,' she turned to Sherlock.

'I doubt his presence would stop anyone from mentioning... Rosamund Watson would be a far better choice,' Mycroft suggested and looked satisfied when that made Lady Smallwood relax a little.

'Imagine if we brought her with us without any explanation,' she smiled for a short moment. 'Can we borrow her? We'd return her in the evening, stuffed full with sweets.'

Sherlock couldn't tell if she was joking and really didn't want Rosie to witness more family drama. 'I'm fairly sure John wouldn't agree.'

'Damn. And there's the car,' she noticed without enthusiasm. 'Oh, God.'

'Mycroft, you don't have to do this,' Sherlock said firmly, feeling absolutely foolish. He didn't want to turn and see Lady Smallwood's face. 'John and I won't stay much longer, you can come back with us.'

'It's fine, you don't need to worry,' Mycroft assured him. 'We have a plan.'

That sounded like starting a war just to avoid family obligations.

'Call me if you need me,' Sherlock added impulsively.

Mycroft cleared his throat to leave Sherlock's offer without an answer. He wouldn't ring him, that was obvious. Not when he could confide in someone else. 

The car stopped. Mycroft hesitated for a couple of seconds. 'I want to visit Daddy's grave tomorrow. You can come with me if you'd find the time.'  

That was the last thing Sherlock wanted to do. He agreed instantly.


End file.
